


Silhouette of Gentle and Firm

by Lishalalalalala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Cuddling, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23681776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lishalalalalala/pseuds/Lishalalalalala
Summary: It's a puzzle how between his rage-driven quest of demon hunting and general absence, John Winchester managed to raise a boy as well-mannered and (mostly) well-adjusted as Sam.Dean is the explanation to that.
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & John Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 76





	1. Silhouette of Gentle and Firm

**Author's Note:**

> An attempted study at how the brothers would interact with each other, when they are not caught in life-threatening, high stake situations, because I always thought that Dean must have tried really hard to raise Sam up an even better man than himself.  
> Warning: not edited.  
> Additional warning: possible trigger for eating disorder. I didn't intend for it to be a theme there but realized that it might be disturbing for some.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby watches the boys at dinner

For the most part, Bobby doesn’t consider himself a family man, but he enjoys cooking, whenever the boys are around. It may have something to do with the calm and peace that comes with taking your time to sit at a dinner table together, not having to jam in quick glances of gory case files in between bites of burgers and hushed discussions about decapitation and heart stabbing while watching tensely for some overly cheerful diner waitress to return.

Or it may have something to do with how once, when Dean was about 14 and John was on a solo hunting trip, Bobby checked in after the boys have been living on their own for two weeks, and found a stack of potato chip bags thicker than the mattress Dean was sleeping on. He remembers the shrugged “keeps me full enough” Dean had given at his “is THIS what you’ve been munching on for half a month?!”, and the following up “Sam is the one needing all the vitamins and stuff”.  
That is what Dean had said, as if it was the ultimate truth of the universe: “Sam’s a growing boy, he needs his vitamins.”  
That was when Dean was 14. 

Sometimes Bobby finds himself looking at the height difference between the brothers and wonder if it wasn’t because of all the extra “vitamins and stuff” that Dean had forced down Sam’s throat, the calcium stripped off Dean’s bones, the omega 3 squeezed out of Dean’s marrow. 

Sometimes Bobby catches himself staring as Dean wolfs down hash browns shiny with grease, dripping with grease, and thinks back to the mountain of empty potato chips with a hollowing unease because maybe that is when Dean had developed his taste for junk food, decided to cut his life span even shorter, by adding blocked artery on top of demon hunting.

Then he watches Dean taking bites of cobbler salad, cleans off plateful of vegetable casseroles, devours all the rabbit food he’s deemed unfitting for a hunter’s diet, and thinks, maybe not.  
Maybe Dean never liked junk food as much as he claimed to, maybe he eats whatever comes fastest, cheapest, most available, because he has to and has gotten used to. Maybe it’s the decades’ old mantra that never left Dean the time or space to think about his dietary preference, favorite color, any and all of his heart’s desires. 

Bobby can’t decide which is worse. And that is probably why Bobby cooks trays of food for dinner, balanced protein, carb, and good fat, and lays it down on the table. He’d finished eating first and was heading to the kitchen, ignoring Dean’s protests of “I’ll do the dishes Bobby”, because he doesn’t need them as housemaids more than they had to, for far too long already, and just as he was picking up the dirty pot and the scrubbing rug, he heard Dean go “finish what’s on your plate.” And he had sounded so much like John that Bobby startled, then he recomposed himself with an inexplicably painful realization: 

The tone and pitch were indeed a perfect impression of John, giving an order with no room for argument. Except John, during his fatherhood of two boys, in light of all the things he deemed important and necessary, had most certainly never felt the need to utter that sentence.  
Bobby doubted any of the Winchesters had the concept of "leftover" after Mary’s death.  
He let go of the sudden ruefulness quickly however, in favor of listening in to what Sam's response to that would be.  
The lack of one whetted his curiosity enough that Bobby actually started leaning over the wall to peek at the two, while Dean snapped, “don’t give me that look. You are not leaving this table until everything on your plate is gone.”  
OK.  
Bobby clears his throat: “If this is about not wasting food you might as well blame me. It was too big a portion for three people anyway, so we’ll just put the rest in a container he can eat it tomorrow.”  
That had stopped Sam from the listless poking at his roasted game hen, and he lifted his eyes to look at his brother, apparently ignoring Dean’s earlier comment about using his puppy eyes, the ones that always seemed to be packing extra firepower when used against the older Winchester.  
So Bobby leaned back into the kitchen, expecting to have seen the end of this little disturbance, until Dean’s voice sounded again behind the wall, uncharacteristically harsh considering Sam hadn’t even raised the issue regarding boundaries and overstepping ‘em: “This is not about wasting food. Sam, what is this about?”  
A barely audible mumble came through in response and Bobby let out a sigh before throwing down the scrubbing rug. The dishes are not going anywhere.  
Neither is Sam, judging by the look on his brother’s face. Bobby walks himself over to the table, feeling weirdly out of place in his own dining room: “Alright Dean, cut the kid some slack, what’s the big deal?”  
Dark brown head whirled around, making him that much more certain that he’s butting into a conversation like he shouldn’t, so does the frown that Dean wore, although Bobby is pretty sure that it is not aimed at him: “I’ll quit picking at him,” he says, brows furrowed together above ever intense eyes: “when he quits picking at his food.”  
Bobby peers at the empty salad bowl and gapes: “What are you talking about? Sam’s not a picky eater. He finished all the vegetables.”  
It occurred to him, hearing his own voice, how much they sounded like an old couple arguing about co-parenting, and the helpless blush that has climbed up high atop Sam’s cheekbones only helped to make it worse.  
Surrogate father or not, Bobby so feels like this is beyond the scope of what should count as his business, and he could only assume that the answer that came after Dean’s humorless snort of laughter was offered in courtesy: “Yeah I’m not concerned about his consumption of vegetables. Tell Bobby what you had for lunch Sam.”  
The younger man squirms: “Two boxes of celeries and finger carrots.”  
Bobby blinked at that, momentarily rendered oblivious to Sam’s increasing embarrassment and the overall awkwardness of the situation: “Wait, how did you even swallow that much fiber down?!”  
And of everything, that seemed to be exactly the wrong question to ask because Sam who had a minute ago looked embarrassed out of sorts, now looked about to cry.  
Bobby really wished he’d stayed with his pot and kept his trap shut.  
He must not be the only person feeling this way. Dean shifted and dragged Sam’s barely touched plate over to himself and waved him off. “Don’t worry about it Bobby. I’ll be with the dishes in a moment.”  
While he is on his way to gladly retreat back to the kitchen, Bobby watched with mild bewilderment as Dean begins to cut the bird into small pieces.  
“Three bites,” he hears the older Winchester say, voice a collected calmness: “eat three bites of these and we’ll see.”  
He turns on the faucet after that, and the rest of whatever conversation the brothers may or may not be having is drowned out by the sound of water rushing against ceramic and stainless steel. And Sam took his time finishing the designated food quota, seeing that there is no sight of Dean even until Bobby is picking up the clean dishes to wipe them dry.  
“OK.” He hears him instead, sounding softer now, probably satisfied with how much Sam has managed to gobble down: “And what are you going to do next time?”  
“Not fill up on celeries.” Came Sam’s response, voice small with just a hint of obstinacy, Bobby looks down at the sink to hide his smile even though no one is there to see.  
Across the small hallway, Dean hummed in agreement: “Or other low calorie, all fiber and water food?”  
“That too.”  
“Go on then.” Dean said, completely back to the lighthearted warm tone he’s heard him use with Sam throughout almost two decades now: “Consider yourself relieved from this torture position. Feel free to go do whatever it is that you do.”  
He thinks Sam might have mumbled something about helping with the dishes and Dean pokes his head into the kitchen a second later, an apologetic smile on his face and plate of half-finished game hen in his arm: “I’ll cook and clean tomorrow.”  
Bobby tosses over half a smile of his own: “Not like it’s trouble for me. I like cooking for you idjits.”  
Dean bumps him over with his hip to reach into the cabinet for a container: “Well at least one of us doesn’t take 20 minutes to eat three bites of chicken.”  
Bobby doesn’t respond so he continues to talk: “Been doing that since he hit puberty too. Unbelievable.”  
It should have sounded like a complaint.  
It had every reason to sound like a complaint.  
But when Bobby risked turning his head ever so slightly to stare at Dean’s face, he finds him with a smile so soft that it hurts to see. It’s a combination of fondness and melancholy, definitely couldn’t be meant for the chunks of meat he’s scraping off into the container with a fork.  
He tries to remember if he ever saw John with smiles like that, after his younger son had taken off to Stanford.  
Bobby clears his throat: “So, what’s the deal with celeries and carrots anyway?”  
The fork stills in Dean’s hand for a split second, and when he opened his mouth, the answer came out carefully: “Sometimes,” Dean says, chewing on his words, saying them like he’s sharing a secret that is not his to share: “Sammy feels the need to go to the extreme, on everything, of what he thinks is…good or healthy…or pure.”  
He throws the fork into the sink and turns on the faucet, but doesn’t start rinsing it.  
His gaze trails over, following the Sound of Sam across the wall.  
Bobby is positive that Dean could see Sam through solid concrete and cement.  
Then Dean swallowed, picking the fork back up: “I’m not sure if it’s punishment or precaution.”  
The fork was squeaky clean when Dean’s done with it. Personally, Bobby felt the silverware didn’t deserve that much of aggression. He glances at it sympathetically before diving into the next sentence, mouth moving before brain could think better of it: “Ain’t never seen you this fussy with him, not even about hunting.”  
Dean shrugs with one shoulder as he pulls open the utensil drawer, the corner of his mouth pulled down with the phantom of a worry line: “He’s mostly OK with other stuff. But it’s not like I could eat his food for him.”  
It was a confusing explanation until it wasn’t, until Bobby sees the meaning behind his words clear as daylight:  
Sam’s OK with everything that Dean could take care of for him. And where Dean couldn’t, he watches him like an eagle.  
More than that, Bobby thinks, and the flash of John’s face and a fleeting (possibly, uncalled for) sense of guilt, stops his train of thoughts.

But after that he sees more. The way they act around each other, the way Dean nods along to every word in a conversation but has his eyes trained on Sam, from across the house, a diner, a street with a bit of traffic, the way his left shoulder tenses up until Sam is on the sidewalk, the way his face relaxes and his eyes lit up with renewed interest in whatever the hell is being said. 

He sees something from Sam as well, how he would saunter into any room with genial ease, and he would locate Dean, and the ambling would suddenly break into strides.

One afternoon, one particularly hot and humid summer afternoon, Sam was working in the yard while Dean went for a milk run and had come back. He was having a beer in front of the TV with Bobby when Sam came in, drenched in sweat. And when the younger boy had crossed the doorway and saw Dean, the grin on his face was less greeting and a lot more like a kid getting picked up early on his first day of school. It looked like the combination of delighted surprise and long-awaited relief and that was ridiculous because Dean was probably gone for little more than an hour.

But Bobby didn’t have the time to process that thought before Sam all but skipped towards Dean, and he’s pushing his mouth right next to Dean’s ear to whisper something into it. Bobby almost winced as he leaves a giant Sam shaped print of sweat on the back of Dean’s light blue shirt. But Dean doesn’t even bat an eye, doesn’t flinch at the feeling of sticky skin pressed against his neck, as he raises an arm to ruffle at Sam’s mess of hair, and barks out a short laughter at whatever it is that Sam thinks he’s discovered in Bobby’s yard. He wipes droplets of sweat off Sam’s head using the edge of his palm, and Bobby wonders how in heaven’s name has he never noticed the way Dean’s lips quirk up when he waits for Sam to finish his sentences, the puddle of tender attention pooling in his eyes when he tilts his head back to look at Sam.  
The boy stands a good 3 and half inches taller than his older brother, yet Bobby could swear he saw Dean folding up the raincoat Sam has left over the back of a chair the other day, humming absently to himself, body on autopilot. 

Then again, maybe that was how things have always been between them, and Bobby just didn’t know where to look until that one night, when Dean had stood his ground to make sure that Sam would eat enough, eat properly, have a balanced meal each and everyday, with all the textbook gentle but firm patience.

Like a father.


	2. Apple of His Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s eyes are fixed on the tiny hands to inspect his work: “Whatever,” he says, tucking the file back crisply, “it’s not like he’ll be needing this in his 20s.”
> 
> Now that has aged just about as well as…anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: not edited
> 
> Pretty much just tooth-rotting fluff

The first time John walks in on Dean cutting Sam’s fingernails, the boys were 7 and 3. Dean’s face was all twitchy with nerves but his hands were steady. It had been endearing. 

It has become increasingly less endearing now that Sam is 8 and sitting on the end of the motel bed, cross-legged like his brother, who is on the floor with Sam’s right hand hanging down, nail clipper in his own: “What are you doing?”

Dean doesn’t look up: “He keeps forgetting to cut his nails.” He huffs, not answering John’s question at all, and not living up to the annoyance in his voice, what with the careful maneuver of Sam’s tiny chubby fingers. John frowns: “Don’t you think your brother is more than old enough to do his own manicures?”

Neither of the boys showed any sign of having heard him, which prompted John to drop his duffle bag on the table with a little bit more force than strictly necessary: “I’m serious, Dean, how is he supposed to handle a blade if he can’t even handle a damn nail clipper? Cut it out.”

At least there was some form of acknowledgement this time, despite it being in the form of a giggle from Sam, at his choice of words, and John couldn’t help but snort a bit himself. 

The air in the room becomes looser after that, with less tension, and Dean orders Sam to “stop looking down” before he starts filing the tip of his nails, blowing off the dust with a concentrated frown that seems to live behind his eyes permanently. John fears that he’ll get wrinkles in his forehead before 20.  
“It’s not a big deal.” he told John, and the glowing orange light of the bedside lamp casts his shadow down on the carpet, looking so much taller than the boy actually is. A mist of nail shavings danced around his face, 12-year-old and not a trace of puffy childhood fat left. As John watched speckles of light form reflections of small halo on the side profile of his son, he suddenly remembered the petname Mary used to have for him:

My little angel. 

And that sharp knife twisting into his gut, the fuzziness from how much her voice have faded from his memories, has left John with an exhaustion so heavy and abrupt that he couldn’t care less about how Sam’s personal hygiene is being taken care of.

Plus, Dean’s right. It’s not like he would still be needing this in his 20s.

There is something wrong with the satellite dish, Dean decided, because the signal has been unstable at best. They’d spent about 15 minutes squinting at highly blurred replay of NFL games before Sam let out a loud sigh of frustration and flopped down into the bed. And currently, he is doing nothing besides staring up at the ceiling, Dean assumed, due to the incessant tugging of the hem of his shirt, because the only sounds in the room are the droning of the commentator and the monotoned ticking of the alarm clock, and Sam hasn’t made a peep for most of the evening, hasn’t really given any indication that he is still awake. 

As a matter of fact, Dean thought, as he thumbs down the volume button before twisting around to check and see for himself. 

Half lidded hazel eyes stared up at him before blinking closed, almost blue in the dimly lit room. He blinks again, light grey; again, brown.  
Something tugs at Dean’s heart incomprehensibly. He twists further to grab the hand messing with his shirt to occupy his mind with something else, anything else, other than the hole making itself known in his chest, the hole that has been digging itself bigger and deeper since his brother had went off to Stanford and is only just beginning to heal: “What are you doing?”  
Sam grumbles unhappily as his destruction of Dean’s top is being put to a stop: “There is this, snagged thread,” he muttered, turning around to burrow his face into Dean’s jeans: “I was trying to pull it loose.”  
Of course.  
Dean unwraps the offending thread from a slender digit, not liking how many rounds the cotton seems to go, or the red squeezing mark it’s beginning to leave: “You are trying to pull my shirt apart is what this is. Try cut your nails instead of your blood circulation.”  
The whine that came from Dean’s left hip was completely unwarranted considering it’s barely past 8, but it draws down his hand to land on a mop of silky brown hair nonetheless.  
“Little too early to be falling asleep, Sammy,” he murmurs, pushing strands back to look at Sam’s face, what little part that is not hidden, “and you do need to cut your fingernails, before they start splitting.”  
There were less intelligible words and more whining this time, but Dean managed to make out bits of “m’tired” and “do it tomorrow”.  
“No.” He sighs, although the stroking of his hand slowed and he is lowering his voice before he could realize, “See you always are going to cut them tomorrow, and then you always forget.”

He supposes it’s his fault that Sam ignores him.

Dean heaves out another sigh, pats him once, before standing up and heads towards the bathroom to retrieve his nail clipper, chuckling lightly at Sam’s dramatic rolling into the mattress once there isn’t a second body there to prop him up. 

It was with no small amount of irony that he finds himself back on the floor of a motel room, nail clip in one hand and Sam’s fingers in the other, thinking back to how John had once told him to stop helping his little brother with things like cutting his fingernails while he watched cartoons, or taking his Batman sneakers off after he’d fallen asleep wearing them. Like 8 is such a ripe age to be self-sufficient.

Ridiculous. 

Then he thinks about his rebut at the time, how he had picked up those tiny hands to inspect his work, before Sam would hop off to dip them into jars of peanut butter, how he’d rolled his eyes quietly at John’s disapproval.

“It’s not like he’ll be needing this in his 20s.” 

Now that has aged just about as well as…anything.

It’s only practical, Dean tells himself, while he bends down low enough that his forehead is almost touching the floor, you can’t do anything, basically, with split nails, and Sam is more than capable of cutting them himself. It’s just better to take care of the matter at the earliest convenience, since he had already noticed. 

Sam’s eyelids flutter but he doesn’t open them up, and he makes a move to lift his head off the pillow: “You could do that from here.”  
Dean purses his lips: “Didn't wanna get nails all over the bed,” he whispers, giving the trimmed edges one last rub with the pad of his thumb, just to make sure there are no bristles, “go back to sleep.”


End file.
